Page 4 of The Dragon’s Good Girl

"I fail to see how the distinction helps me."

"It means you're being dramatic."

"I'm freezing."

From the couch, Ronan glances over his shoulder. "I like it at sixty-eight."

Mikael stops and looks at him for a long moment. "You sleep on the floor by choice. Your opinions on civilized living have been revoked."

Ronan shrugs and turns back to Grath, untroubled by losing his voting rights.

"There's a perfectly good fireplace," I point out.

"There's also a perfectly good thermostat, yet someone insists on using it as a weapon."

Mikael lowers himself into the armchair closest to the fire, gathers the silk robe around his legs, and tucks his feet beneath him.

For a creature who can bench-press a sedan, Mikael occupies furniture like a disgruntled housecat.

Evander is at the stove, his broad minotaur frame taking up most of the space in front of it as he stirs a simmering pot. His horns nearly brush the range hood. Bread warms in the oven, filling the kitchen with the smell of butter and rosemary. He cooks more often than not, and the rest of us have learned to stay out of his way and show up when it's ready.

"Give it another ten minutes," he says as I lean over the pot.

From the couch, Ronan lifts his head. "Is the bread ready yet?"

"No."

"How long?"

"The same ten minutes I was just told."

Ronan considers this. "What if I only take one piece?"

Without turning from the stove, Evan picks up the wooden spoon and points it in his direction.

Ronan settles back into the couch. "Ten minutes is ten minutes, asshole."

Kiran arrives before the argument can develop, bringing a wave of heat with him from the temperature room. He crosses to the fireplace and coils himself on the rug. Fifteen feet of naga should take up more space than he does, but Kiran has a talent for arranging himself wherever it's warm.

Mikael reluctantly lifts his feet as the end of Kiran's tail passes his chair. "If you touch me with that thing, we're going to have a problem."

Kiran gets comfortable in front of the fire. "You'll survive."

"I shouldn't have to survive my own living room."

"You've survived six hundred years of your shitty personality. I have faith in you."

Corvin turns another page.

I hide a smile in the refrigerator.

By the time I straighten, Godric has appeared behind Corvin's chair. I didn't see him come in. He's perched on the back of the couch behind Corvin, gray wings folded neatly against his back, watching the room.

Corvin doesn't even look up from his book.

This is how most Saturdays end up when nobody has somewhere else to be. Someone cooks. Someone argues. Mikael complains about everything. Godric appears from somewhere. Eight men who bought an old estate together and somehow turned it into both a business and a home eventually collect in the same room.

The temperature drops before Gael reaches the doorway.